


Well-Behaved Women Seldom Make History

by WhyArentIBlessd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood Magic, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Boundaries are tested, Conflict Resolution, Conflict of Interests, Friends to Lovers, Greg puts him in his place, Jim IS the other woman, John runs around like the other woman, Kidnapping, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Inaccuracies, People doing weird things to dead people, Romance, Sherlock is an asshole, Slow Burn, Spontanious Romance, Trust-building, Wooing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4652694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyArentIBlessd/pseuds/WhyArentIBlessd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty sneered at himself as he flexed muscles through the pain they gave, and he glared at Sebastian harshly. He was all soft edges, curves, and weakness- he struggled to sit up. "What is it, James?" "Bring me John Watson." Smirking, Sebastian Moran let go of the blankets, allowing Moriarty to reclaim them, and he clicked his heels militarily, smug to have one. "Right away."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"John Watson _is_ an honourable man, James." The figure beneath he blankets shifted slowly but said nothing, to his sniper's surprise. "He could be of great help to you, as you are." He was prepared for some sarcasm, but his employer's snort was altogether unexpected.

"The good doctor's allegiance lies with my nemesis, Sherlock Holmes." Under the covers, the criminal shifted and winced as his body rebelled with a white-hot clench in his gut. "He will not help me. I would not take it if he gave any!"

"James!" Suddenly the towering blond soldier had both hands full of fabric and he yanked the covers back viciously. The criminal flinched, the cold draft unwelcome on his hot skin, but his insides flinched afterwards and it winded him. Blood flowed faintly and Moriarty gnashed his teeth at his assistant terrifyingly, the madness in his eyes promising unspeakable agonies once the consulting criminal could move freely. "You will take _any_ help he gives you! Look at yourself! Do you want to be like _this_ forever?!"

"No!" Jim Moriarty sneered at himself and he flexed muscles through the pains they gave him, and he glared at the sniper harshly. He was all soft edges and curves and _weakness- he_ struggled to sit up, chest heavy. Moran stiffened.

"Then what is your plan, James?"

"Bring me John Watson."

Smirking to himself, Sebastian Moran let his grip on the blankets go lax, allowing his employer to reclaim them, and he brought his heels together with a click. "Right away."

* * *

 

"JOHN!" The deafening shout caught the doctor off-guard and, in his shock, his roommate grabbed his arm and towed him back out to the cab he'd just vacated.

"Sherlock?" John's cabbie looked surprised, but didn't question the detective's order to drive. "What's going on?!"

"We have a case!" Declared the detective shortly, his phone out and his fingers beating at the screen feverishly.

"Sherlock," John sighed and slumped back into the seat. "I'm tired. It's been a long day. I just want to get some rest. Can't you handle this by yourself, just for one night?"

"Crime never sleeps, John." The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched, as if he found his own statement funny. "Shouldn't a soldier such as yourself have more _stamina_? You work in a general practice, not a hospital. How much trouble could a few check-ups be?" The detective never looked at John, his attention very fixed upon his phone screen so, when the cab paused for a light, Johnthrew open the door and stepped out. "John? JOHN!"

"I'm going to bed." Giving the befuddled detective a stern look, John slammed the cab door and stepped back onto the sidewalk as the light turned green. He would have a few blocks' walk to Baker Street now, but it was preferable to spending a night playing peace-maker between Sherlock and Lestrade's team. He had had enough of people for the day, and he just wanted some time to relax.

 _You should have gone with him..._ John's conscience nagged, wagging a finger at his actions while he walked. _Who knows what kind of trouble he'll get into; Lestrade might put him in an overnight cell if he lips off too much again. He had Anderson and Donovan seeing red last time he saw them._

"He can handle himself, the big baby." John snorted, turning a corner with his mind in the cab. "I'm his flatmate, not his _mother_."

"Trouble in paradise?" Asked a low voice, its owner coming up on John's left with a posture that screamed 'peaceful'. John's military mind recognised the man wasn't a threat right now, but something more primal nagged him that this stranger could turn hostile at any moment.

"You have no idea." John agreed, wary but open to the possibility this man was really harmless. "My flatmate is a complete and utter arse."

"It seems like _everybody's_ flatmates are causing trouble." Chuckling, the stranger pulled out a carton of cigarettes and, offering one to John, lit one with habitual grace. He took a long pull, turning the end flaming orange, and exhaled with something content curling the corners of his mouth upwards.

"Oh yeah?" John slowed his walk to match the other man's, liking the sympathy. "What got you out?"

"My flatmate, Jane. She's got the usual monthly blues, if you know what I mean." Taking the friendly elbow to his ribs, John laughed a little and nodded, putting his hands in his coat pockets. "She's a right _terror_ , so I thought it'd be best to get out and leave her be. Don't want to antagonize her right now, or she'll get going and _never_ stop."

"'Poke the tiger with the stick,'" John laughed quietly, "'she likes it in the eye.'"

"Exactly." Taking another drag, John's friend suddenly stopped and extended a hand to John. "I'm sorry, I forgot to introduce myself." John took the hand. "John Watson."

"Sebastian Moran."

Before John could start back at the familiar name, he looked down at his hand and nearly missed the sight of a syringe disappearing back into Sebastian's sleeve.

"You..." John struggled to speak, his mind fogging and his filling with cotton swabs. "bastard." He slumped against Sebastian and his eyes slipped closed.

"It's a pleasure meeting you on friendlier terms, Doctor Watson." Sebastian smiled, quickly manoeuvring the man into a waiting car. "Pleasant dreams."

"Hnnnnghh..."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock didn't like the case as much as he had leaving the flat.

He had whipped up Donovan into a bit of a fit, which was nice as she had to leave the scene for a few minutes, but he had no one to congratulate him for it. He had out-witted Anderson (which, in all honesty, wasn't hard at all) and had him frothing with half-minded insults by the time Lestrade had _actually_ done anything important. However, when Lestrade saw how incensed his team had become due to his observations, Sherlock had quickly found himself in a holding cell.

"You _must_ be kidding, George." Sherlock sneered, crossing his arms and inspecting the cell with disgust. "I won't stay here." He gave the DI a meaningful look and tapped his foot. He started toward the door, fishing for his phone, but then it clanged closed in front of him; as he watched, Lestrade turned the key and rattled it for good measure.

"I'm not really giving you the choice, Sherlock." In the quiet of the precinct, Lestrade's voice was authoritative and fierce; he meant business and Sherlock's forehead creased. "I can't let you keep disrespecting my team like this. Or _me_ , for that matter!"

"Please." Sherlock brushed it off and turned away from the other man. He only turned back when he heard a retreating pair of footsteps. He saw Lestrade reach the end of the hall and gripped the door tightly. "George! Let me out of here! This is not funny!"

"It's _Greg_." And the detective was alone, with only his thoughts for company. He stared at the empty hall, dumbfounded by Lestrade's new-found confidence, but a smirk broke across his face. He could just call John, and he would have him out of there in no time. Reaching into his pocket, Sherlock let go of the door and reclined on the dingy little bed, and stiffened.

His pockets were empty.

* * *

 

Sighing with relief, Lestrade took the steps of the precinct lazily, his hands resting deep in his coat pockets, and he smiled to himself. 

Pulling out a cigarette, he lit it and took a light puff before he pulled out his other hand and grinned widely at the mobile phone resting in his palm. 

That ought to teach him. 

Tossing it up once, Lestrade pocketed the device once more and headed home, eager for a more peaceful night and the privilege of unlocking Sherlock's cell the following morning- or afternoon, depending on how contrite the consultant seemed.

* * *

 

John woke up dazedly one part at a time and, in a moment of fear, he groaned: "I'd sooner _die_ than talk."

"Admirable." Moran wandered forward, his civilian clothes mostly traded for a silk shirt and a suit jacket; the jeans, however, had remained. "Someone told me 'a dead man has few secrets,'" 

"-and a flayed man has _none_." Growled a feminine voice, the tenor low and dangerous. "Kill him, Sebastian. I _told_ you he wouldn't help me. This was an _utter_ waste of my" A harsh intake of breath cut the woman off and she hissed, "time..." J ohn cocked his head in her direction, feeling his arms slowly return to life, and he struggled to sit up as his world spun and tilted. He was lying on a floor that, however nicely carpeted, was making his back ache. 

"And who might _you_ be?" John quipped, realizing he was not bound in any way. And that Moran had left the door open; a very sloppy move, even if it was an intentional one. He couldn't see the female speaker but that wouldn't stop him from making a mad dash as soon as his legs were strong enough to hold him. 

"Oh, Johnny-boy, that hurts." A sneer evident in her voice, the woman used a nickname John hadn't heard in a while and iced his blood like beers in a cooler. His skin pimpled into goose flesh, dampening his hands with a thin layer of cold sweat, and John felt his heart hammer against his ribs. He was quick to calm each adrenaline rush; Moriarty definitely couldn't sound _that_ feminine. "Don't you recognize me?" 

"I'd remember a girl like you, I suspect." John said carefully, pushing up on his elbows and hearing his spine crunch to release the tension. "And don't call me that." 

"Oh, someone's cranky." John scoffed at the accusation. "What's wrong? Not happy to see me?" 

"Moriarty's right hand got me with a syringe, trundled me off, and I'm lying on the floor." John pointed out, unimpressed with his situation altogether and uncertain that he would make it out of there alive. "One of you has my phone, and I have no idea where I am. I'm not happy about anything. A nd I can't even see you, so no, I'm not."

"Oh, poor baby," Covers rustled and a chair scraped forward. "let Daddy help you. Sebastian, if you please." 

"Yes, sir." Suddenly John was blinded by the lights that came on and he winced, giving a quiet gasp as he squeezed his dazed eyes shut and rubbed them with one hand. He gave his fingers time to rub the sting of fluorescent glare from them, groaning quietly, and risked cracking one eye open to have a look around.

The room was all dark woods and rich reds and browns; the occasional green or gold popped against the darker tones, and the lights the man had lit illuminated only the better half. With the rest of the room in shadow, eerie shapes cast in the black and the woman's face was framed in shapeless devils of blackness and light. 

Her cheekbones were soft and smooth, rounding her heart-shaped face in toward her piercing eyes. They sucked in the lamplight like two wells, ever-empty and hungry for whatever might fall into their depths; John gawked, surprised by the youthful face, and the tousled mass of waving hair helped none with the intensity. It framed her like a photograph in thick black and popped her pale skin; she sniffed once and looked down her nose at him, wrapped in a comforter and bundled into the expensive chair. 

"Do you remember me now?" She asked, arching an eyebrow with the Irish lilt to skew her words into a more mocking question. "Or do I need Sebastian to get you another jacket?" 

John's blood turned cold again, this time beyond his control, and equal parts of fear and confusion mixed across his expressive features. He stared up at the woman in the chair, a self-made queen on her throne, and his jaw dropped in the silence between them. 

"Moriarty..." John breathed, and her smile was a wicked wind, raising the hairs on the back of his neck as she bared white teeth. 

"Finally. Now we can get down to business..."


	3. Chapter 3

"You're..." "A woman, yes."

"But how?" "I was hoping you could tell me, doctor." Moriarty pulled the covers a little closer and the area around his eyes tightened.

"But you're..." "Yes, I'm a woman." Moriarty growled.

" _How_?!"

"If I knew, you wouldn't be here, would you?" Attempting to rise, Moriarty went white as fresh linens and slumped back into his chair with a ghostly expression. "... I want you to _undo_ this, Dr. Watson. _Now_."

"I-I can't!" John blurted, his eyebrows shooting up into his hair. "What am I supposed to do? I prescribe antibiotics and suture some cuts; this is _not_ my division!" Moran was suddenly at his side, squatting impossibly comfortably, and John leaned away from the sniper as much as he could get away with.

"Then could you at least give him a once over? You're a general practitioner now, so you should be able to tell if he's all clear. And how to manage his new... well, _parts_." John would have laughed if the blond man hadn't been entirely serious. The smile he'd been forming died on his lips and John gawked at him openly; Moran stood up and popped his spine casually. "We'll pay you for your trouble, doctor, _and_ you're discretion."

"My..." Any plans of escape soared out of reach and John managed to get up finally. He paced, muttering to himself and casting long looks at Moriarty's cross face as he tramped back and forth across the carpet. "You must be _joking_!" He decided. "Why _me_? This is some kind of trick for Sherlock, isn't it?"

"Ah, yes," Moriarty drawled, "It is! Here's the part where I turn back into a- oh _wait_! I'm a _woman_ , Doctor Watson! How is any of this beneficial to me?!"

John was at a loss. "Ah..."

"Well?" Moriarty lifted his brows and waited impatiently for John to speak. "Oh, of course! Not a damned _thing_!" Careful of Moran, John staggered a few steps to his right, the world teetering in the same direction, and he clutched his head with one hand.

"Sorry, pal," Moran stopped his swaying with a hand on his arm. "I used a larger dose of that tranq than I should have. Couldn't have you getting up en route now, could I?" The American manner shone through again, more so than it had on the street, and John frowned at the unintentional 'pal' added into the sniper's apology.

"Makes sense." John shook away the helping hand and smoothed his jumper, not happy with the wrinkles on one side. He quite liked the jumper, if he had to say so himself.

"Unlike that nasty sweater." In a short moment, Moriarty ruined any good mood John was forming. John stared him –her?- down.

"Thanks for that."

"Any time." John sighed heavily and approached his patient, brushing off his hands.

"Alright, how do you want to do this? Here? A medical office? Do you have the tools I need?"

"Swabs, syringes, forceps, sticks, stethoscopes and such." Moran confirmed, handing John a small paper with a full list. "We prep the residences with most equipment. Just in case."

"And the speculum? The sterilizer?" John demanded, feeling more in his element. "If am supposed to do a _full_ check-up, a pelvic exam is on my list of major procedures to do."

" _Excuse me_?!" Moriarty sat up, the blanket slipping off one shoulder. "You will _not_ -"

"As a doctor, I cannot force you, but I am duty-bound to inform you that, given your current... state, the exam would be in your best interest." John was quick to justify his choice of procedure, and he kept his distance from the consulting criminal in case he set him off. "With all due respect, I doubt you have much experience with caring for anything besides sticks and stones, and as a female you cannot afford to jeopardize that part of yourself. I've seen proper women do it all the time, and it is _not_ pleasant."

"He has a point, James." "Shut up."

"And if I had a sanitary room, I would be a lot easier. Not to insult your medical area, but I'd feel more comfortable about fiving the physical in the clinic." John held his breath. He _knew_ he was pushing his luck, but everything he had said was entirely valid and giving an unsanitary physical could be potentially fatal. However, he could see that a 'pelvic exam' had creased Moriarty's forehead considerably. "The pelvic exam only takes two minutes... sir."

"Shall I make an appointment with the secretary?" Moran piped up, patting the consulting criminal on the arm. "Or does your clinic take walk-ins?"

"No," John held out his hand, noticing the tremor had passed. "I'll schedule you in myself. It's all in my phone... if you don't mind, that is." Another push, testing the waters. And he resisted the urge to glance at the open doorway as he waited in the heavy silence.

"James?" Moran, surprisingly, still deferred to the man –even if he was a woman. And Moriarty threw the whole thing out.

"Give him his phone. Watch him." His eyes narrowed harshly and, curling up tighter, he watched the sniper pull the device from his pocket and hand it over.

"Don't pull anything funny now, doctor." He warned, "I'd have to hurt you if you did."

"Wouldn't dream of it." John managed to make a cheeky little grin for both criminals to see, pulling the phone from Moran's grasp. He turned it on, frowning to find it completely unlocked, and he pulled up his calendar with an obvious motion. He turned back to Moran, who would undoubtedly be the one getting the criminal there, and offered him the device again. "When is good for you... gentlemen?"

"Gentlemen." Moriarty confirmed.

"Thursday?" Moran typed in the appointment matter-of-factly. "It will give your office time to prepare."

"Much appreciated." Joh shook hands with Moran again, keeping a watch on his sleeve for another syringe, but something bit the back of his neck as he put his phone away. He swatted it like a bug and came away furious.

A tranquilizer dart.

"Fuck's sake..." John groaned, feeling the sniper move in to support his weight. "you _cock_."

"'Fool you once, shame on me. Fool you twice, shame on _you_ , John." Moran teased, blurring in front of John's eyes.

"Nighty-night, Johnny-boy." Moriarty giggled. "See you on Thursday." 

That was the last thing he heard before he fell unconscious.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock didn't need to be let out _right_ away; or, that was what Lestrade had decided to tell John, should he ask or come storming in. The detective had been in the holding cell for almost eighteen hours now, if John wasn't just ranting in the precinct already.

"I'll never hear the end of this." He sighed and, pushing up the steps, Lestrade entered the precinct gravely. To his surprise, the main area was fairly empty; a few men hung around the offices, one with a cup of coffee, and Lestrade staggered a little bit.

"Alright, sir?" Asked the man, setting his cup down. "You look a little..."

"Isn't John-" He corrected himself. "Doctor Watson, is he here?"

As if it were obvious, the officer said: "No." And looked around uncertainly. " _Should_ he be here? Should we pick him up, sir?"

"No, no," Lestrade waved the idea away. "I'll be right back."

"Gonna go let out the freak?" With no warning, Donovan was at his side, two cups of coffee in her hands, and she offered him one with a smug look on her face.

"Yes, actually." Lestrade said neutrally, grinding his back teeth at her attitude.

"I wouldn't." Sally confided in him like it was a secret, grinning at the other officers, and they grinned back with identical smiles. "I think I like him where he is."

"I bet you tell Anderson the exact same thing." Lestrade left her, coffee in hand, shocked by his own bitingly-callous remark towards her. Of course, the sexual relationship had been known for a while, but it was not usually his place to rib her for it.

_That was rude._ He told himself, shaking his head as he went for his keys. _I'll have to be nicer to-_ "Ah, hello, Gareth." _That bastard!_ Grabbing the seething Anderson's arm, Lestrade turned around and led him away from the cells. He sent him upstairs. "Finally, I thought you'd forgotten about me down here."

"Had enough?" Lestrade asked,

"Quite," Sherlock was reclining on the little bed, looking actually quite comfortable. A pen and notepad lay on the floor beside him, open to a half-filled page. "I have no access to my laptop, and I seem to have _lost_ my mobile phone." He gave Lestrade a glance –sharp and accusing- but didn't blame him verbally.

"You needed to learn a lesson, Sherlock." Lestrade growled,

"Say what you want," Groaned the detective, throwing an arm over his eyes. "I was entirely correct in my deductions. You all know that Donovan and Anderson are-" "But we don't say anything about it! Big thing about a Holmes! You don't know when to _shut up_!"

" _You_ call _me_ , Lestrade." Sherlock scowled, " _You_ want _my_ opinion."

"ON THE CASE, _NOT_ ON MY TEAM!" It felt good to shout at the tall man finally. "You're our consultant for the dead bloke, not out sex lives and life choices! Leave off them! Let them deal with it when it comes up! Butt out!"

"I will think about that." Getting up, the detective glared at Lestrade and came to the door in a few quick strides. "I'll think about it in Baker Street. In fresh clothes. Over a _nice_ cup of tea."

"Actually, you won't." Lestrade sipped his coffee as Sherlock voiced his outrage. "I'm keeping you for contempt and impeding an investigation."

"John won't let you for long." Sherlock said certainly, "He'll have me out of here, you watch. Your charges are paper-thin at best, and won't stand up to _any_ scrutiny. Go ahead and let him in now, or are you going to let me 'sweat' a little more."

"John?" Lestrade grinned widely at the shock on Sherlock's face. "John isn't here."

To his credit, Sherlock recovered well. "Liar." He kept the icy mask on until, throwing open the hall door, Lestrade called for the doctor with no response. He held it open too, liking the shock that slipped back onto Sherlock's face:

"Am I still lying?" He asked, but when he got no reply he left the holding area, smirking.

* * *

 

John groaned as he woke up, his body rejecting the double-dose of tranquilizer, and was shocked to find himself on the couch, a smiling yellow face grinning down at him. It was practically glowing in the sunlight, which angled just so over the other buildings. He was in Baker Street, alone by the sound of it, and it had to be late in the afternoon.

Getting up, John rubbed his leg, and then his shoulder; his fingers skated away from the scar, even over his shirt, and he grimaced at the memory of it. He looked around, trying to find some kind of remnants of his roommate's departure, and John was puzzled by the stale air of the apartment. Sherlock hadn't been back since last night and John's gut quivered anxiously at his absence from Baker Street.

Sherlock was married to his work, but he never spent the night with it unnecessarily.

In a few minutes, John had his phone in hand –one minute was lost to fumbling it out of his pocket and onto the floor, the other lost finding it under the couch- and was tracing the detective down.

Where are you? - JW

When he got no reply after the first five minutes, John sent another.

What are you doing? – JW 

Are you alright? – JW 

Should I get Lestrade? – JW 

... You know, I can't do anything if you don't bloody answer me, you prick! – JW 

Wow, uh... sorry. :/ I have his phone. Sherlock is in a holding cell. – DI GL 

Sorry to worry you, John. He's fine btw. :) Just acting like a brat. – DI GL 

No, I'M sorry! –JW 

What's he done now?! – JW 

He was harassing Donovan and Anderson again. -.-' If anyone important asks, he's in for contempt and impeding an investigation. I'll let him out when his head comes out of his arse. – DI GL 

... – JW 

You DO realize this is Sherlock here. You'll have him for a LONG time. – JW 

I'm prepared for that. – DI GL 

No, you're really not. – JW

I'm on my way. - JW 

With a sigh, John got up and ruffled his hair, wondering blandly if it had all been some sort of exhaustion fueled dream with Moriarty and the kidnapping, but then an alert on his phone dispelled the idea.

**Personal Appointment - This Thursday, 8:30pm**

Full-body physical for Jane Moran.

*Clear clinic, prepare tools, be discrete.*

Thanks again, John. See you then. c:


	5. Chapter 5

"I cannot _believe_ you!" John shook his head, walking Sherlock out of the precinct his one hand firmly clenched in the higher shoulder of his coat. "You are lucky Lestrade didn't formally charge you!" 

Sherlock sniffed, pulling away from John's grasp, and he ruffled his hair a little as he came to the sidewalk at last. "It would never have held up." 

"You would have still been stuck in a _real_ cell!" John objected sourly, "I can't talk you out of a criminal charge, Sherlock!" He threw up his hands when the detective shrugged, storming back in the direction of Baker Street, and he ignored Sherlock's order to wait for him. "WAIT FOR YOURSELF!" He ignored Sherlock entirely, even when a taxi rolled along beside him and the messy black head poked out of the window. 

"Get in the cab, John." 

"No." John picked up his pace, glaring straight ahead. He felt himself falling into his soldier's march, his shoulders back and his pace measured to the millimetre. 

" _Get_ in the cab, John!" Sherlock's face was screwed up beyond his cool composure; it was rare to see him all riled up like this.

John refused adamantly. "I can walk perfectly fine, thank you very much!" 

"You left me in a holding cell overnight, John!" Sherlock hissed, "The _least_ you could do is stop making a scene and get in the car." 

" _I'm_ not the one making a scene!" John growled, "You got _yourself_ in that cell! I told you to get off their backs! I didn't have anything to do with _any_ of that!" 

"Exactly!" Sherlock got out of the cab, nearly giving the poor cabbie a heart attack because they were still in motion. "You... _you_ -" 

"I'm not dealing with you!" John threw up his hands and turned his back on his flatmate, hunching his stiff shoulders. Since three o'clock that afternoon, he had gotten all cleaned up, eaten something, worn off the tranquilizer's side-effects, and run down to Scotland Yard to bail the detective out of custody. It had been another two hours filling out paperwork, mostly on the side of Sherlock, and John just wanted to eat and have a real night's sleep. Tomorrow, he needed to be in the clinic for at least twelve hours, and setting up for the 'personal physical', which would be quite a trial in itself. 

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock demanded, gabbing John's shoulder. He was surprised by the ferocity with which John shook him off and, with a final fierce glare, took off running down the side street like a trail of bullets was nipping at his heels. Sherlock fell into a stalled pursuit, his shock falling away in cold deduction as he stalked the doctor through the pulsing streets of London. He cursed when he lost sight of the shorter man, a crowd separating them, and when they cleared John was gone. 

Clicking his tongue agitatedly, Sherlock turned right and kept an eye out for his doctor. 

John couldn't have gone _too_ far.

* * *

 

When Moriarty crawled into bed that night, his gangly little limbs were shaking as if an earthquake in his bones rattled them. His slender fingers were icy and stiff, and his legs were weak like jelly; whining, he shivered underneath the covers and struggled to pull them up to his chin. 

"Sir?" Someone came in and cleared their throat, "Is something wrong?" 

"Cold..." Jim choked it out, struggling to speak as his tongue deadened in his mouth. His shivers were slowing down as the ice worked its way up his legs and Moriarty hissed wordlessly as foul play became apparent. 

"Oh dear," Smiling, Moriarty watched his practicing physician stroll in casually, a bag in one hand and a wide grin spreading across his face. "you don't look well, sir. Let me give you something for that... I have _just_ the thing."

"Touch me, and it will be the last time you use your hands, you _filth_ ." Curling his legs in close, Moriarty hissed curses and threats through his chattering teeth, feeling an uncontrollably-primal fear build in his gut. The physician was very much bigger than him, and some deep-rooted feminine instinct told him to run. 

"Is that a hint of fear, I see?" Teased the looming figure, his eyes keen. 

"Drown in hot steel,"

"Oh, it is!" Gleeful, the physician approached and opened his bag on the end of the bed. It barely moved when he kicked it and, quick as a snake, Moriarty's ankle was in his grasp. "And there it is again. I _love_ that look on your face, Jim. I just _adore_ it…"

"Sebastian will kill you _slowly_." Moriarty snarled and spat, unable to hold his glare when the taller man pulled out a tiny syringe of translucent fluid and flicked out bubbles of air. "He'll take strips off your hide and make me a set of leather boots."

"That's nice."

"He'll rip open your chest cavity and wave your intestines into the hangman's best noose!"

"I can't wait."

"He will kill you before you kill me, and I'll have him throw your loathsome corpse in the Thames like _garbage_!" Pausing, the hulking tower of a doctor looked at him with strange emotion in his eyes. It was a silence pregnant with tension, and suddenly he a smug smile grew across his lips. Moriarty scowled suspiciously, "What?"

"Oh, Jim dear," He sighed, "you're already dead." And the puny syringe pricked the tender skin between his toes.

The world went black.


	6. Chapter 6

When John lost the detective, he took a page from his book and joined into the same crowd that had hidden him from sight. He ruffled his hair, pulling up his jacket sleeves, and popped his collar up as he watched Sherlock pass him by, scouring the distance for him. Grinning, John left the crowd just around the corner and smoothed away his disguise, strolling leisurely down to Baker Street again.

He even cut through the park, smiling at a few couples as he sipped a hot cup of tourist coffee.

John sighed contentedly to himself as he walked, not having had a relaxing evening in the last few days. It had all started last Saturday, when Sherlock's frenetic tinkering and puttering had driven him to the sanctuary of the pub. After having drunk more than his fair share of beer, John had stumbled home early Sunday morning to find the detective _still_ tinkering away, and nursed a wild, raging hangover a few hours later. Monday came all too soon and, regretting his solo pub crawl, John had tended patients with waning patience. Tuesday couldn't come quickly enough, what with Sherlock coming and going like a madman all Monday night, and it had seemed like it would be alright until the row in the cab. John was –at this point- sick of Sherlock's incessant badgering, and his constant energy was both irritating and exhausting.

And it goes without saying that meeting Moriarty hadn't exactly relaxed him.

And now, when John had pulled himself together again and up to Scotland Yard to help release him, the prick was even worse than ever! With the checkup looming the next night, John was not in the mood to deal with his peculiar flatmate. He took his time in returning to Baker Street, surprised to find it empty, but did has he had planned. Soon, he had a pot of freshly-brewed tea and something to nibble at on a good tray, and he was snug in his bed.

He intended to enjoy the whole lot of it, no matter what cases came up, and turn in once it was done. And nothing Sherlock did was going to stop him.

* * *

 

Sherlock stalked back into Baker Street a little after midnight, sopping wet from a sudden typhoon-like downpour an hour ago, and shucked his things without restraint.

John had disappeared by the time the crowd had cleared, no trace of him left after the mad stampede of tourists and teens, so Baker Street was empty enough for him to be indecent.

"That took longer than I thought!" Called the blogger from the other room, making him jump. "What took you so long?"

"JOHN?!" Sherlock glanced around, perplexed, and quickly praised himself for not having totally disrobed as of yet. He bent, scooping his drenched coat and soaked shirt off the floor, and kicked his feet free of their prisons. He shuffled into the bathroom. "HOW DID YOU GET HERE SO FAST?"

"Spoilers!" John's smugness pervaded his tone. "And don't yell; I can hear you just fine without waking poor Mrs. Hudson!"

"John..." Sherlock simmered quietly at John's flippancy and threw on his red silk robe, tying it tightly at his waist. He stalked across the apartment, feeling his mouth tighten into a grim scowl, and he threw open John's bedroom door without warning. In his bed, cozy and dry, the blogger jumped and lost his page in the ratty paperback he was reading; taking in the teapot, the tray, and the cozy atmosphere, Sherlock lost his patience.

"Sherlock, why are you-" "I am _soaked_ from looking for you!" He growled as his voice dropped into a menacingly-low bass. He saw John stiffen, exhibiting the key traits of a prey animal, and his nostrils flared as he prepped for another lecture. "This is _absolutely_ ridiculous! You _refuse_ to accompany me on recent cases for which your input is needed and sit here like an old bag drinking _tea_ while I _scour_ half of London looking for you! Must you be so _difficult_?!"

John face crumpled from shock to outrage. "Sherlock, you're one to talk about being _difficult_! I have had it up to _here_ with you!"

"ME!?" Sherlock knocked the book out of John's reach when he stretched out for it and the usually peaceful doctor's eyes burned with a soldier's fire. "YOU _MUST_ BE JOKING!"

"Sherlock," John murmured quietly, straightening up with an unreadable expression that only made him angrier. "I don't want to fight with you."

"That _is_ unfortunate." Sherlock snarled, grabbing the front of John's sleep shirt fiercely.

"Sherlock..." John's jaw tightened as he fought to speak calmly. "If you're taking a piss with me, I swear-"

"If we are making _promises_ , Doctor Watson, I swear that I am _not_ joking, and that I-"

Just as quickly as Sherlock had interrupted John, the ex-soldier wound up and cracked him in the jaw with dizzying force. The detective fell back, releasing John, and the doctor was on him in a minute to both dodge the reply and send him to his knees with a deft blow to his solar plexus. As he fell, Sherlock scrabbled for a handhold and, failing, tore down the bedroom shelf and all that was on it in a thunderous crash.

John followed him through the doorway, not minding the broken glass or his bare feet as he gripped Sherlock by the collar of his robe and brought their faces close.

"Look, mate," He said neutrally, "I'm not going to fight with you. You are obviously drunk, or high, or... _something_. The Sherlock Holmes I moved in with was not some barmy _tosser_ who lost it after a little _rain_!" Letting go of Sherlock's robe, John straightened up and looked down at him pityingly. "What's going on, Sherlock? The weekend tinkering, the ins and outs on Monday night... is something going on? If I can help, I will, but you're running me ragged, mate. I need a _break_."

"A break?" Sherlock chuckled dryly, touching a hand to the swelling and pain that was his right cheek. He got his breath back with a bit of difficulty, hearing Mrs. Hudson on the stairs, and he looked up at John's sincere expression with an expression that darkened like the sky before a thunderstorm. "A break..."

As the door to the flat flew open and Mrs. Hudson staggered in wearing her dressing gown and cap, Sherlock dove at John and his fist met the doctor's nose with a solid crunch of snapping cartilage. Blood spilled down over John's front and, eyes blazing, the two of them fought viciously until Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson came in to rip them apart. It took all three of them too and, watching his flatmate spit and fight against the Detective Inspector and the policewoman, John resolved silently that word of his meeting and dealings with Moriarty were never going to reach Sherlock from _his_ lips.

He relaxed under Anderson's hand, listening to the officer's praise for his fighting and the critique of his many injuries and bruises with a bland attentiveness. He responded when necessary, falling into an almost sullen silence, and soon the five of them were on their way to the hospital to make sure that John's feet and Sherlock's palms weren't a risk. He was tempted to call it off for him –he could stitch it himself, to be honest- and let Sherlock stay in _their_ company for _another_ night, but he couldn't bring himself to.

He was too tired suddenly, so he sat complacently and let the other doctors handle this. He answered questions he had memorized, and let them do the work for him, and soon he was back in bed with a mess all over his floor and a seething Sherlock Holmes skulking around the flat, his silence speaking more words than his tongue could ever convey.


	7. Chapter 7

Thursday morning came and, calling to make sure he was scheduled for the evening shift and that the eight thirty check-up was still planned for that night, John rolled out of bed lazily. Without the adrenaline of the fight, the soles of his feet were much tenderer and he hobbled his way to the bathroom, rubbing the crusty, uneasy sleep from his eyes. Frankly, he was surprised that he hadn't been smothered in his sleep by the consulting detective currently looming in the kitchen with a pinched, sour face.

"Good morning," John muttered, more out of habit than sentiment and, seeing it in his eyes, Sherlock responded in kind.

"'Is the day so young?'"[1] He tossed it over his shoulder, continuing to meddle with something in the sink, and John scowled at the quote.

John groaned. "Oh, Sherlock... not the Shakespeare. It's too early for Shakespeare."

"'Is't possible?'"[2] John fumed, a violent pleasure burning in his gut at the sight of the line of stitches running across his flatmate's palm, but said nothing. "'Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer/ The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,/ Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,' it is _always_ the time for Shakespeare."[3] Throwing up his hands, John stomped across the flat and got himself dressed. The hot water for his shower was spotty –Sherlock kept using it- and by the time John was done, he was sure he had bruises _and_ burns across his back.

"I'm going out." John grunted, pulling on a coat. "And the clinic needs me tonight, so don't bother with me."

"'O farewell, honest soldier,'"[4]

"Bugger off."

* * *

"Did you see John's face?" Lestrade glanced over at his fellow officers, watching some of the other officers enjoy Anderson's retelling of their call to 221B Baker Street. The investigator was, not surprisingly, beaming for his audience. "He would have _killed_ Sherlock if I hadn't stepped in!"

"Not like Sally or the DI did anything, eh?" Called a younger man, grinning widely. "If the two of them were _so_ ready for a brawl, how come _you_ aren't all beat up, Phil?"

"He looked after John." Lestrade explained, approaching the group with a wry grin. "It took Donovan and I to handle Sherlock" –The precinct erupted into catcalls and cheers of 'YEAH SALLY!'- "and once John calmed down, Anderson came and helped us."

"Once the situation was under control." John couldn't resist the jab and, waving away his guide, the doctor approached the DI calmly. "I'm sorry about last night, but thanks for coming out, Greg."

"Looking rough, Watson!" Donovan grinned as the other officers looked on, eager to witness the doctor's wild side for themselves. And, to be fair, he _did_ look pretty rough.

With black under each eye and a bit of white tape across the bridge of his nose, John looked like a bad bar fighter. His lip was split and swollen and, just above his waistband, his back was littered with bruises where he had been thrown into the edges of solid furniture. He was sore, and a little grumpy, and John just wanted to sleep the day away.

"Thank you, Agent Donovan," John's smile was icy, but appropriate. "I didn't notice. I'll get right on it."

"Easy, John," Lestrade tentatively touched his shoulder, careful of his bruises. "She's just playing." He watched the doctor carefully, his back stiff, in case the policewoman set him off.

"It's fine," John waved the DI away, smiling until his lip stung. "I know. I can take a joke."

"What brought it all on?" Anderson prompted, "Why were you two going at it?!"

"..." John needed a minute to formulate a proper explanation. "I... Sherlock has been _difficult late_ ly, and last night we just lost it. He was getting on my last good nerve, and when he grabbed me it snapped."

"Don't mess with Doc Watson." The officers broke into a fit of laughter, the speaker frankly apparent when his coworkers patted him on the back, and John couldn't resist approaching him.

"What's your name?"

Turning, the officer fell silent and a few of them even left, making a bullshit excuse to get out of his way. The young man's smile dropped and, with an audible gulp, he said: "Jason Haefling, sir." His posture correct as John watched, pushing his shoulders back and his chest forward, and the doctor smirked as his authority influenced the younger man even after his return from service.

"You remind me of a young man in my barracks. American-born, but a damn good shot." He could picture the this officer in fatigues, his anxiety due to the silent ride through the desert and the heavy rifle in his hands instead of an old army doctor staring him down. John frowned, "To be honest, I don't remember what happened to him... not at all." He sighed heavily and shook his head. "Don't join the army, Jason."

To his surprise, the police officer looked horrified. He lost the anxiety and his posture relaxed considerably. "Weren't you in His Majesty's service?" He scrutinized John harshly. "How can you tell me _not_ to join the military if _you_ were in the military?"

"Because I was attached to a unit in Kandahar for my term in Afghanistan." John explained resolutely. "I am –was?- a soldier, Jason. Captain John H. Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I fought in Afghanistan, and I was _shot_ in Afghanistan, and I am telling _you_ , Jason, _don't_." He watched the young man's face screw up, his mind fighting to digest the information, and turned to face the DI. "Greg, I should get going. I've got to be at the clinic for a night shift soon."

"Need a lift?" John waved the inspector away and made for the door.

"I'll be fine." John smiled, "Thanks again, Greg."

Lestrade shrugged. "That's my job." And then John was gone. He made it too the clinic in good time for his shift, cleaning up as much as possible before he began seeing patients upon patients until the secretary came in between appointments.

"Doctor Watson? You have a patient asking for you and-"

John nodded distractedly, finishing filling out a form. "Send them in." The older man sitting on the examination table waved at her, earning no response, and was puzzled by the paleness of her usually rosy cheeks.

"Excuse me, sir, but it's supposed to be your eight thirty check-up." The nurse said quietly, and John glanced at her only to stare at the horrified expression she revealed.

"What?" John prompted, "What is it?"

"She looks bad, John," Whimpered the poor, quivering secretary. She had obviously never seen more than some measles. "She looks really, _really_ bad!" She expected some shock, or some confusion, but suddenly John was ordering her to escort the elderly man out and struggling to pull on his white coat. "Sir? I called another doctor to-"

"I'll take her now." John commanded, shoving his paperwork away.

"But what about-" John gave her a look that kicked her into action, despite the man's protests, and he said: " _I'm_ taking her. Now. Escort him out and get me the tools."

Shoving his right arm through his coat sleeve, John hurried to the door and threw it open with authority he rarely used. Striding into the hall, John's hurry made the white coat billow behind him all the way to the lobby. When he caught sight of Moriarty leaning on Moran as the sniper argued with the other physician, John froze and whispered:

"My God..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Romeo & Juliet (I, i, 160)  
> [2] Hamlet (II, ii, 358)  
> [3] Hamlet (III, i, 57-59)  
> [4] Hamlet (I, i, 17)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How is everybody liking it so far? Any theories about poor Jim's condition? Any input to give, good or bad? I'd be much obliged to the criticism; it only makes me better.

"James?" Moriarty grimaced as the rumble of his name broke the quiet of his bedroom. He groaned quietly, his throat hoarse, and tried to disregard the stickiness of his bed sheets. "Jim?' Moran approached tentatively, intrigued and horrified by his employer's silence, and he tugged on the covers to test the waters. "Jim, it's after noon... are you alright?"

"No." With a pathetic snuffle, the blankets shifted and the sniper stiffened. "I feel terrible. I'm hot, I'm cold, I'm _sore_ \- this must be what Hell feels like. I hate it."

Moran chuckled quietly. "Women do this every month, so I'm sure it couldn't be _that_ bad." He set down the breakfast tray beside the bed, his employer not moving still, and he began to peel back the sheets. When his new face appeared, Moran noticed that the consulting criminal was pale and damp. His high, female cheekbones were coated in a thin sheen of sweat, and he looked manic when his eyes opened.

"You don't _look_ alright, Jim." Taking his pulse, Moran realized how cold his swan-like neck was. "Jesus, Jim! You're _freezing_!"

"Am I?" Shifting, Moriarty curled in tighter and pulled his knees to his chin with a dull expression. "...I change my mind. I don't feel well at all." He could feel blood loss beginning to take its toll, his frail soft form heavy and listless, and it took a dizzying degree of effort to sit up.

"Your arm!" Moran had glanced down, at his employer's sloping female shoulder, and his eyes widened. Moriarty followed his stare, unashamed of his nakedness even as a woman, and was shocked by the dark bruise of clotted blood along the outer edge of his bicep. He touched it almost reverently, but there was no ache or feeling to the blackened skin.

When he locked eyes with Moran, there was plain fear in them. "Sebastian, something is _definitely_ wrong."

" _MARCUS_!" Suddenly Moran was propping him up on his pillows and the on-site doctor was hurrying in. His dress shirt was rumpled and creased where he had obviously fallen asleep in the next room, and the red blotch where his hand had supported his head was proof of that, but Jim couldn't muster the gumption to say anything cutting. "Marcus, something is wrong!" Jim watched Moran instead, the trim ex-soldier fighting his instinct to speak clearly and calmly with the doctor while he looked on.

He didn't pay attention to the words, but Moriarty could tell that the doctor was keenly interested in whatever Moran was telling him. He kept glancing at Jim, curious, and it made him sick to his stomach to be looked at like a science project. John Watson didn't look at him like that.

Surprising himself with the thought, Moriarty paused his entire process and returned to it, picking it apart and dissecting it meticulously until he'd had his fill. It was true that the doctor had not seemed to look at him like Marcus was now; John Watson did not look at _anyone_ like that. His patients were people, always, and that was a reason why Moriarty had sent for him.

"Sir, perhaps you should stay in bed today..." Marcus brought him back to the moment and Jim was shocked to see the doctor experimenting with his sudden bruise. He hadn't felt a thing. "It wouldn't do any good to stress yourself by going out like this."

"No." Pushing at him, Jim pulled the sheet over his chest and grimaced at both weak and feminine displays. Marcus barely shifted when he pushed and it brought a sour taste to his mouth. "I'm going. John has set up his little clinic, and his study benefits me. You, so far, poke and prod me. Congratulations."

"But sir-" "James?" Moran broke in and smiled at him. "should I leave the breakfast tray or will you sleep more before the appointment?"

"Leave it." Moriarty struggled to kick his legs over the side of the bed. " I could use something to eat."

"And the paper?" Holding the Times out to him, the sniper asked him another unspoken question. Was he going back to business today?

"Turn on the news, would you?" Jim ducked his head and tried to slip his feet into the slippers beside the bed. He struggled, scowling, and soon Moran stooped to put them on his dainty feet himself. Moriarty watched him, looking down his nose, and he extended a foot as if he had commanded Moran to do it; when he noticed the doctor watching, he snapped. "What the fucking hell are _you_ staring at?"

Marcus jumped. "I-" "Sebastian." Snapping his fingers, Moriarty watched the sniper approach the doctor and grab him by the neck. "let him out." Without ceremony, Moran tossed the doctor out of his bedroom and shoved him down the hall. "That's better."

* * *

 

As Sherlock watched John leave, he felt a twist of sour guilt season his bitterness and aggravate his bruised ribs. He knew what John had said last night was true; as of late, his lack of _challenging_ cases had been driving him a little batty. However, now that John was gone, a case of intriguing nature had practically _fallen_ into his lap.

"When you returned to collect him, what happened?" Sherlock demanded, steepling his fingers as he considered the distraught couple in front of him.

"He was _gone_ , Mr. Holmes!" Cried the husband, holding his wife close. "There was no sign of our boy! Will you help us?!"

"H-He even left his duffle." Stammered the wife, dabbing at her eyes daintily. "His phone, his wallet- everything was there! If they took him for ransom, why wouldn't they take it?"

"Darling, calm down," Hushing her, the husband provided emotional support by meeting her eyes and gave her a sense of closeness with a hand on her knee. Appropriate, but full of meaning. "Mr. Holmes will help us... won't you?" Sherlock wasn't really listening. His mind was running through possibilities and his attention was far from the posturing father and his whimpering wife. He stared past them silently, only adding tension. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Hm?" Blinking, Sherlock left his mind palace and gave them his attention. "Ah, yes. Lost son, very sad."

"He's not _lost_ , Mr. Holmes!" Bawled the wife, "Someone _stole_ him! Someone stole my _baby_ \- I _know_ it!"

"Marcia, you don't know that for sure." Murmured her husband, touching her arm.

"Don't 'Marcia' me, Paul!" Swatting his hand away, she leaned in Sherlock's direction. "Mr. Holmes, I can feel it in my _bones_ somebody took him! Please find my baby!"

"I will try."

* * *

 

Molly Hooper's day was just getting worse and worse as her day went on. She put a run in her new hose, leaving her legs bare, and she had lost her hair tie to pull her hair back when she was jostled on the tube ride over. With the accumulation of those facts, Molly just wanted a nice relaxing day with her corpses and _no_ Sherlock.

She didn't need any additional stress on top of everything else.

Sighing, Molly opened the door to a fresh man and, pulling out the drawer, her jaw dropped.

" _SHERLOCK_! "


End file.
